" "I was going to say that you were raising the kids alone." Her shoulders slouched, mouth turned down. "Oh, you poor dear. Your mother has really she...tered you. The father of my children didn't leave me. I Devoured him." "Devo-" She unstoppered a bottle of cognac. "Yes. Devoured. Either of you care for a drink?" "Please," Mom said. Tara approached us, each step falling perfectly in line with the previous one. Fuck, did she have a set of hips. Just watching her strut a few steps across her. "Post-partum will do it sometimes," her friend Barbara had told her. Barb was a psychologist and women's social worker at a clinic in town, and, lucky for Wendy, would sometimes share gems of insight with her over lunch. "Babies have a way of screwing things up for mom and dad, even in between all the joy and fun. Spontaneity disappears, and the work of caring for baby has to come first. It's an adjustment. You and Bill will be ok."So that must have been it. They would get back on track, she. Every Friday afternoon thereafter she'd have mestop by after work for a touchup, maybe to have stray hairs thinnedfrom my brows or more facial hairs lasered away until my cheeks andchin were as smooth as hers -- there was always something. Thebeauticians there would tease me, always urging I get a perm ortattooed eyeliner -- of course I couldn't -- but occasionallyexplaining seriously to me why a particular hairdo I admired wouldn'twork on me. Or might work. They, together with the. " Still thinking about the note I want to write, I ask the bartender for a cocktail napkin and, after a moment's pause, I write my short note. I fold the napkin in half and head across the bar. I'm all too soon directly in front of his table -- and directly in front of him. I suddenly realize that this is the closest that I've ever been to him, and I almost lose my nerve. I take a deep breath, and then I hand him the napkin as the crowd behind me breaks out in enthusiastic applause. He looks at.